“Do you consider him a desirable man for a woman to marry, Cousin George?”
“No, I don’t. He has gone all to bits of late, and he doesn’t exactly give off an odour of sanctity, does he? In fact, if you ask me my private opinion as his relative, who has had the honour of supporting him more or less for many years, I should say that he was about as big a blackguard as you could find in London, and I have always wondered how you could care twopence about him.”
“And yet you suggest that I should marry him.”
“Well, you know he is going to be a rich man, and you might as well have your share. But I understand that you won’t.”
“No,” said Edith decidedly, “I won’t. He did fascinate me rather once, but I have got over that, and now I dislike him. It is curious how we change in these matters—only I wish I had seen the truth earlier.”
“Yes, so do I. If you had, perhaps you would have gone to Egypt when you thought fit to stay at home. Well, if you won’t commit bigamy, which I admit is an awkward thing to do, why not make it up with Rupert?”
Edith gasped and sank back in her chair.
“How do you—I mean, what do you know?” she exclaimed. “Has Dick told you?”
“Ho!” said this wise old man, drawing his white eyebrows together, “so Master Dick has a finger in this pie too, has he? He has not only murdered Rupert; he has buried him also.”
“Murdered!”